und in his
pocket-book. An inquiry there developed the fact that
his name is Pierre Bethune, that he is recently from
France, and has no relatives in this country.

In a moment I was out of the car and running westward to the Elevated.
I felt that I held in my hand the address I needed.

CHAPTER XII

At the Cafe Jourdain

Fifty-four West Houston Street, just three blocks south of Washington
Square, was a narrow, four-storied-and-basement building, of gray
brick with battered brown-stone trimmings--at one time, perhaps, a
fashionable residence, but with its last vestige of glory long since
departed. In the basement was a squalid cobbler's shop, and the
restaurant occupied the first floor. Dirty lace curtains hung at the
windows, screening the interior from the street; but when I mounted
the step to the door and entered, I found the place typical of its
class. I sat down at one of the little square tables, and ordered a
bottle of wine. It was Monsieur Jourdain himself who brought it: a
little, fat man, with trousers very tight, and a waistcoat very
dazzling. The night trade had not yet begun in earnest, so he was for
the moment at leisure, and he consented to drink a glass of wine with
me--I had ordered the "superieur."

"You have lodgings to let, I suppose, on the floors above?" I
questioned.

He squinted at me through his glass, trying, with French shrewdness,
to read me before answering.

"Why, yes, we have lodgings; still, a man of monsieur's habit would
scarcely wish----"

"The habit does not always gauge the purse," I pointed out.

"That is true," he smiled, sipping his wine. "Monsieur then wishes a
lodging?"

"I should like to look at yours."

"You understand, monsieur," he explained, "that this is a good
quarter, and our rooms are not at all the ordinar' rooms--oh, no, they
are quite superior to that. They are in great demand--we have only one
vacant at this moment--in fact, I am not certain that it is yet at
liberty. I will call my wife."

She was summoned from behind the counter, where she presided at the
money-drawer, and presented to me as Madame Jourdain. I filled a glass
for her.

"Monsieur, here, is seeking a lodging," he began. "Is the one on the
second floor, back, at our disposal yet, Celie?"

His wife pondered the question a moment, looking at me with sharp
little eyes.

"I do not know," she said at last. "We shall have to ask Monsieur
Bethune. He said he mi